The prompt over at Sunday Scribbings is "When Pigs Fly."
The roof had very little pitch to it and a recent coating of tar gave it a quality of being open to nothingness, especially tonight, where clouds obscured the moon.
They’d been drinking cheap beer kept cool in a cheap Styrofoam cooler, already there was a huge chunk taken out of the lid, and discussing problems of the day: Mainly women and sex and under-achieving jobs and the prospect of moving back in with parents until this fucking economy turned around.
They’d hauled up the chairs from Baker’s tiny dining table and each leg had pierced the tar and gave a permanence to their seat arrangements.
None of the four had such durability. They did just enough not to get fired, keep the lights on and stay comfortably numb with booze.
Baker surprised them all when he stood up, chugged his beer and said he was leaving. It was way too early, they said, this party was just getting started.
“Gotta go,” Baker said.
The cat-calls and empty beer cans rained down upon him.
“It’s time,” he said, picking at a stain on his hoodie.
He then broke into a run toward the lip of the building and launched himself forward.
“When pigs fly,” he called out, just as he disappeared from view.
They looked at one-another, arms crossed, and shrugged. Davis flipped open the cooler lid and went fishing for a fresh can.
“You ever get the feeling that there’s something going on that we don’t know about?” he said, popping the tab and licking foam from his fist.